What is this gift whose innocent acceptance precipitates the horror that we know is coming: our transformation after dark into mindless flesh-eaters? It doesn’t seem to matter. We cling to each other, the tattooed woman and I, instant lovers — until the knock comes from the top of the stairs and the searchlight finds us and we are history, one with the zombie masses swarming the gates. I turn in my sleep, not quite surfacing. Now we are in the Channel Islands, and there is a possibility of escape. Our helicopter looks for a place to land, fighting the wind, which is so strong all the trees grow parallel to the ground. In this conference room, we will be safe. Colonel Gaddafi and President Obama are here with their entourages, each making a great show of being relaxed and in control, preparing for a chess match that will end the war.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I’ve looked for what I love about this, and although the powerful imagery and dream-like, magical qualities are clearly part of the appeal, it also has something extra, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Maybe that’s it — the feeling of something more, something unidentified and possibly unidentifiable; something that can’t be articulated.
Hi Pete – I’m glad you liked this! I almost didn’t post it at all, but I do want to do a better job of blogging my dreams, so up it went despite my misgivings.